Royals (Royals #1)(57)

Threading my arm through his, I nod down at all those people in their fancy dresses and weird headgear. “They’ll learn to love her. Everyone loves El. It’s . . . like, her superpower. Intense likability. That and having really shiny hair.”

“She even had that hair as a baby,” Dad says, frowning. “It was unsettling.”

I laugh, but something in the sound must be off because Dad looks down at me. “And you, poppet? How are you holding up in all this madness?”

Dad has always been good at understanding when things bug me, maybe because I inherited his skill at laughing off stuff or covering with jokes. It works with Mom, usually works with El, too, but Dad . . . no, Dad is onto me.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, because that’s close to the truth. Sometimes I have fun, sometimes I actually love it here. Weirdly enough, the first thing that flashes through my mind is the other morning, riding through the park with Miles, and I shove it aside, but not quickly enough to stop a blush from climbing up my neck. Dad probably notices—he notices everything—but he doesn’t say anything.

“It’s like being on another planet,” I tell him, and Dad chuckles at that.

“It is,” he tells me. “Planet Rich and Famous. The air is rarefied and eventually makes it impossible to breathe.”

Then he smiles at me and says, “But you’ll both be fine. You have something I didn’t.”

I raise my eyebrows, waiting for the punch line.

And sure enough, Dad nudges me, winks, and says, “Good parents.”

I laugh at that, and Dad looks down at his empty glass. “Off for a refill. You need anything?”

When I shake my head, he gives me another wink. “Don’t throw any jewelry into the shrubbery without me, darling.”

Dad goes back inside, and I smile as I watch him go. I’ve missed having my parents around, which is a sentiment that might get me kicked out of teendom, but it’s the truth. No matter how embarrassing my dad might be, how distracted my mom always is, they love us. They’re easy to be around, and they’ve only ever wanted us to be healthy and happy. In that way, we’re a lot luckier than the royals.

Sighing, I turn back to the balcony. It’s still not dark—it won’t be until nearly 11 p.m.—but the light is so pretty, all soft and golden, edged in lavender, and the nearby hills are dark green against the sky. It’s also chilly, enough that I wish I’d brought a wrap or something.

“There you are,” I hear, and I turn around to see Miles coming out of the patio doors toward me, and he’s just . . . it’s very . . .

“Wow,” I finally say.

He is indeed wearing a kilt, but I don’t much feel like making fun of it. It’s the same tartan as my dress, the purple and green and black, and he’s wearing it with a matching bow tie, a white shirt, and a gorgeous black jacket. Even those socks the men wear with their kilts don’t look silly on him, and when I glance down, I notice—

“Is that a knife?” I ask, gesturing to the leather hilt in the cuff of his sock, and Miles looks down.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, it’s part of the whole look. It’s called a sgian-dubh, and it’s—”

I hold up a hand. “No. No history tonight,” I tell him, and to my surprise, he grins, a dimple flashing in his cheek. His curly hair has been tamed tonight, but it still curls around his earlobes, and he looks . . . nice.

Better than nice, but I’m not quite willing to admit that right now.

“No history,” he agrees, and then holds out his hand. “But how about dancing?”





Chapter 27


The ballroom is crowded when we walk in, my hand tucked into the crook of Miles’s arm, and for a moment, I stare at all the whirling skirts.

“That is just . . . so much plaid,” I mutter, and Miles does that huffing sound that, for him, almost passes for a laugh.

“How do you not get migraines looking at so many clashing patterns all the time?” I ask him. There’s an older lady glittering with emeralds, her skirt a riot of bright orange, green, and black, and she’s standing right next to a woman decked out in diamonds and a yellow-and-blue tartan dress. And that’s not even taking into account the kilts on every guy.

“Guess we’re used to it,” Miles replies.

Then he steps back a little bit, looking down at my dress. I remember the way Seb had looked at me in my bedroom, his eyes sliding from the top of my head to my toes, and how that had made me want to pull a blanket over my head.

Miles’s gaze doesn’t do that, which makes absolutely no sense. But maybe it’s that he’s looking at me sort of . . . admiringly as opposed to just assessing.

“The plaid suits you,” he finally says, and I squint at the two spots of color high up on his cheekbones.

“Are you complimenting me?” I ask, and I think those pink patches grow a little bit, which is funny because that implies Miles’s blood is not actually blue, but red, just like us commoners.

“It’s called manners,” he says, and then shakes his head, leading me farther into the ballroom but not quite to the dance floor yet.

I’m fine with that, as the current dance is some kind of folk deal involving people standing in a line, switching partners, swinging . . . it all looks a little dangerous to me, but I spot Ellie in the crowd, her golden hair bright and a smile on her face as she switches from Alex to Seb, her skirt billowing as she twirls.